


I know all the rules (and then I know how to break ‘em)

by cherryvanilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drunk Sex, Las Vegas, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Sibling Incest, Woke Up Married, drunk married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9702173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: Dean never understood the ‘What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas’ slogan because, seriously, he bragged about that shit for three states over after each visit. There was no reason to keep it on the down low or pretend it didn’t happen.So yeah, he really never understood it at all.Until now.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eternalsojourn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/gifts).



> So this came about because of the Annual Vegas Trip canon in the show and the fact that there aren't a million drunk married in Vegas fics. Jared's 'What Happens in Vegas' line from yesterday's Vegascon was completely coincidental ;D 
> 
> Thanks to Abby for beta and Rena for cheerleading.
> 
> Title by Air Supply, because Air Supply titles happen when you drunk marry your brother in Vegas, Dean.

The Annual Vegas Trip, with capital letters, was something Dean looked forward to all year. Sam used to grumble and mope and act like he hated Vegas (like any young dude should _ever_ hate Vegas), but the past few years, he’d mellowed out. He still didn’t go all in for the debauchery like Dean (Dean never did tell him about the cocktail waitress who proposed a threesome with them both -- Sam probably would’ve had a heart attack, and Dean’s not too sure he himself would’ve said no, and he’s suppressed _those_ feelings long enough that he wasn’t about to let them come out via sublimation), but Sam'd chilled out enough to actually go to strip clubs and humor Dean as he grinned and flirted and let pretty ladies sit on his lap. 

Dean never understood the ‘What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas’ slogan because, seriously, he bragged about that shit for three states over after each yearly visit. There was no reason to keep it on the down low or pretend it didn’t happen. 

So yeah, he really never understood it at all. 

Until now.  
________________________

“We’re not talking about this,” Dean says for the tenth time in the past 90 minutes. This last one wasn’t even prompted by Sam’s nagging, but it bore repeating anyway.

“I didn’t say anything, Dean.” Sam’s tone is his patented mix of patience and complete exasperation. Dean never did figure out how he pulled it off so well. 

“Good,” Dean replies, fake grin and even faker cheer in his voice as he pulls his baby into a parking spot and jumps out. He left Vegas behind them in the rearview as quickly as he could. He doesn't even know or care where they are now, as long as it isn’t there. “Let’s keep it that way.” 

Sam’s sigh is heavy at his back. “Look, maybe we should --” 

Dean spins on his heel, cutting him off with a sharp look. “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas, eh, Sammy?” 

“...Sure, Dean.” 

“Besides,” says Dean, walking up the steps and opening the door to the diner. “S’not like it counted, right?” 

“Right,” Sam replies quietly, and Dean has no idea why he sounds so fucking disappointed.  
_____________________________

Dean was drunk, was the thing. And nothing good ever happened to him while he was drunk. Well -- there was that bartender in South Bend. And that gymnast in Akron. Okay, so maybe it was a faulty proclamation, but nothing good happened to _Sam_ when he was drunk, that was certain, and Sam was part of this equation. Sam was a big part of this equation. The hard-on that had dug into his back when he’d woken up that morning proved just how _big_ of a part of this equation Sam was. And seriously, Dean had seen him over the years, but he’d never _felt_ him - no matter how much he’d wanted to sometimes, buried deep in the recesses of his mind and filed under Things We Don’t Actively Think About, like Hell or Purgatory or the shitty pop music kids these days listen to without any respect for the classics. 

Dean got so lost thinking about the Things He Doesn’t Actively Think About that it took him another minute to realize Sam being in bed with him was not what he’d file under normal. Not since he was 12, anyway, the last year he’d allowed Sam to climb into his bed at night and snuggle close. Sam had looked hurt when Dean pushed him away one night, but Dean also hadn't been about to explain to his 8-year-old brother that hitting puberty had turned him into a walking erection, and there were some things he didn’t want to be accidentally doing or thinking about while they were sharing a bed. 

(Fast forward 8 years, and Dean would begin hating himself for how he’d starting noticing his 16-year-old brother, and how, sometimes, he almost thought Sam had been noticing him back.)

So, yeah, Sam. Big, broad-shouldered, mid-30s, _naked_ Sam in his bed, wrapped around Dean so tight, body like a furnace and rubbing his stupidly impressive dick against Dean’s ass while Dean blinked into awareness, mouth liquor-sour and head pounding: not normal in the slightest. And yet it felt so ridiculously amazing that all Dean wanted to do was arch back like a cat and get that dick between his cheeks. 

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and lifted his hand to rub at his face. Which was when he saw it. 

A ring.  
_______________________

“I want some pie, do you want some pie?” 

Sam arches an eyebrow at him over his menu. “It’s 10:30 in the morning.” 

“It’s never too early for pie, Sam,” Dean replies, deadly serious. 

Sam chuckles at him, and Dean thinks that’s something. That’s some semblance of normal. Until Sam reaches over for his coffee, and Dean notices he’s still wearing it. 

Dean gapes, he can’t help it. Sam catches him and arches the other eyebrow. 

“You -- uh, why --” He waves in the direction of Sam’s hand, watches him follow Dean’s gaze and then -- amazingly, gorgeously -- Sam flushes, bright spots of red high on his cheeks. 

“I dunno. Felt weird to take it off.” 

Dean stares at him blankly, his own bare finger suddenly itching from the muscle memory of a solid weight there. “It felt weird,” Dean repeats, slowly. 

Sam shoots him a scowl and that same exasperated look and takes a sip of coffee. “Yeah, Dean,” he says, voice harder as he sets the cup down with a clack. “I don’t know what you want me to say here. Especially since we aren’t ‘talking about it’.” He says the last part with literal air quotes, and Dean would give him so much shit for it if he weren’t too busy flushing himself now, wishing he could crawl into a hole. 

“I’m thinking apple crisp,” Dean says, pointedly picking up the menu. 

“It’s your favorite, after all,” Sam replies, but he still sounds sad and unhappy, and fuck Vegas, man. Fuck. Vegas. 

_______________________

Dean blinked once, twice, three times, but it didn’t change. There was still a gold band on his ring finger. 

“Uh,” he said, just to say something. Sam was dead to the world behind him, making little snuffling noises against Dean’s neck that had him shivering with every exhaled breath. 

“Sam,” Dean tried to say, but it came out more as a croak. “Sammy,” he tried again, elbowing him in the ribs. 

“Mmm, s’early,” Sam said, while he rubbed his stubbled cheek against Dean’s shoulder blade and reached up with his left hand to pull Dean more securely against him. Dean wished he could’ve been more surprised by the flash of gold that flittered across his vision. 

“Jesus Christ,” he repeated, wriggling out of Sam’s stupid hulk-like embrace and swinging his feet off the edge of the bed, putting his head in his hands. 

“Huh?” Dean heard from behind him. “Wha-- Dean?” 

“Well it sure as hell ain’t Mrs. Robinson,” Dean replied, looking over his shoulder at Sam with a tired, wary expression. 

Sam looked -- he looked like someone had bitten his lips to hell, run their fingers through his hair until it was sex-mussed and rumpled, sucked at his neck until they left a string of mouth-shaped bruises. 

His stomach rolled hard when he realized who that someone was, and he barely made it to the bathroom before the alcohol and the knowledge that he’d, at the very least, done some very naked making out with his baby brother last night caught up to him.  
_________________________

“What do you want to do now?” Sam asks when they’re back in the car, stomachs full, tension heavy in the air. 

“I dunno. Drive?” 

Sam nods, absently looking out the window. “I’m kinda tired,” he admits. “You made us bolt out of there, and I’m still pretty hungover.” 

“Maybe you should’ve eaten greasier food and not your dumb egg whites,” Dean replies, not looking at him as he pulls out of the parking lot. He wishes Sam would stop bringing up Vegas, however indirectly. 

“Maybe you should stop being such an asshole,” Sam bites back. 

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sam--” 

“No, I’m serious. It could’ve -- it could’ve been a trick or a spell or anything. It’s Vegas, for god’s sake. But you just wanted to take off, Dean.” 

“It wasn’t a spell, Sam.” Dean’s voice is even. 

“How do you know?” Sam shouts, waving his hand in the air. “You don’t -- you won’t even --” 

“You’re the one still wearing it,” Dean points out. “Does it _feel_ like you’re under a spell?” 

Sam’s quiet for a moment, but Dean can’t make himself look over. 

“No,” he finally replies. “But I’m also -- I’m not looking for an excuse here, Dean.” 

Dean snorts and finally does look at him. “Oh, you’re not? What was all that just now, then?” 

Sam’s eyes are clear and his face is calm when he replies, “That’s for you. Because you can’t handle the fact that we got drunk and got married last night, just because we might have wanted to.” 

Dean nearly drives his baby into a ditch. Sam always did have impeccable timing when it came to laying down his truth bombs.  
_________________________

“Dean? Dean, are you okay?” Sam called from the bedroom. 

“Define okay, Sam,” Dean replied, groaning over the bowl. 

“Are you, uh -- um, what did we do, man?” Sam’s voice got closer. 

_What didn’t we do is the better question,_ Dean thought, and then threw up again. 

It was one thing for Dean to have secretly lusted for this brother for years, but to drag Sam into this -- it wasn’t right. It was so far from right. 

Dean looked up to find Sam standing in the doorway, still shamelessly naked with hickies extending down to his collarbones, some painting over his ribs. Dean had a flash of memory then, his mouth hot and slick on Sam’s skin, Sam moaning beneath him, his hands carding through Dean’s hair, his voice -- 

“Um, hi,” Sam said, looking too adorable for someone so debauched. Though hadn’t Dean always wanted Sam to join his debauchery in Vegas?

“Hi,” Dean replied. He rubbed absently at the ring on his finger and then cursed himself when Sam’s eyes followed the movement. Naturally, Sam looked down at his own finger next. 

“Oh,” he said, looking at Dean. 

“Yep.” 

“That, uh.” Sam dragged the hand with the ring through his hair. Dean’s mouth went dry at the movement. “Wow.” 

“I hope it was a Marilyn Monroe impersonator and not Elvis,” Dean said, shifting to sit up against the bowl. “I’d like to believe I have a little more taste than that.” 

Sam was studying his hand, twisting the band around it. “Where’d we get these rings?” he said in a small, wondrous voice that made Dean’s heart swell. 

“They probably sell ‘em up and down the strip, tryin’ to capitalize on situations just like this.” 

Sam arched an eyebrow. “Getting drunk and marrying your brother?” 

Jesus. 

Dean pushed himself up and stalked past Sam into the bedroom, finding his boxers and pulling them on. The backs of his thighs twinged as he bent over, and there was a vague pain in his ass. Oh, God. 

“We aren’t talking about this, Sam.” 

Then he stalked back to the bathroom and locked the door. 

The shower revealed that they had probably used a condom, at least.  
___________________________

“I’m not sure how many ways I can say we’re not talking about this, but I’ll do it in both Spanish and Latin if that’s what it’ll take.” 

“Alright. Forget about the m-a-r-r-i-e-d part. Let’s talk about the sex.” 

Dean nearly swerves into the other lane. “Sam!” 

“Are you a prude, Dean? Is that playboy act all just for show?” Sam’s voice is annoyingly smug and darkly amused, and Dean’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. 

“Fuck you,” Dean grits out. “Excuse me for not wanting to talk about sexing up my baby brother.” 

Sam’s voice is softer when it comes again. Understanding, but not condescending. “Dean, I’m 34, man. I haven’t been a baby for a long time.” 

“Still my brother,” Dean mumbles, face heating. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, and the word sounds weighted. Dean risks a glance at him and wishes he hadn’t. There’s a heat in Sam’s eyes, one he can recall from the night before, just before it was followed by Sam’s mouth descending on his and licking away any excuses as to why they shouldn’t do this. “Yeah, I am.” 

Sam holds his gaze and Dean swallows hard. 

“Sammy…”

“I’m your brother,” Sam barrels on. “And I know you better than anyone ever has and than anyone ever will. You’re the only thing that makes sense, and this makes sense too, Dean. This --” He holds up his hand and points to the ring. “This makes _sense,_ and I wasn’t so drunk that I don’t remember thinking that last night. Somewhere in the corner of mind I knew what we were doing and how right it felt. And _this_ \--” he pulls down his collar, flashes the purple bruises, and flushes when he says, “I’ve wanted this forever, Dean.” 

Dean has to pull over and stop the fucking car then, because Sam’s apparently determined for him to crash his baby today. 

He shifts into park and breathes and stares down at the wheel and at the ring on his finger. He thinks about Sam’s words and how he should run from them. His chest feels like it’s caving in, and there’s too much rising inside him: fear, want, hope, disbelief. 

He latches onto two of the four. 

“Get over here,” Dean breathes out. 

“What?” Sam’s voice is dumb and comical. 

“Get the fuck over here, Sammy,” Dean repeats, before looking up and letting Sam see -- everything. 

Sam’s eyes widen, and he’s shifting across the seat and reaching for Dean before Dean has to say any more. It’s not their first kiss, but when their lips touch it feels like it, feels like everything.  
___________________________

“Better hurry up and shower if you’re gonna, we’re hitting the road.” 

Sam looked up at Dean, and those bleary puppy eyes were way too much for him just then. 

“We’re leaving?” 

“Uh, yeah, man. Kinda wanna get the hell outta this joint, you know.” Dean felt way too exposed in just a towel, but he also forgot to bring his clothes into the bathroom with him. 

“Right, yeah.” 

It’s then that he noticed Sam was holding something in his hand. “What’s that?” 

Sam didn’t answer, just got up and pushed by Dean, pressing it into his hand as he went to the bathroom. 

The marriage certificate. It wasn’t in their real names, of course. It was for Dean Smith and Sam Wesson and heh, he wondered which one of them went there. It wasn’t real. They weren’t really married, and so he should’ve just laughed this off, shouldn’t be creating more tension to an already tense situation. But they absolutely slept together; that was real. They were brothers; _that_ was real. Dean had been ass over tea kettle for Sam for nearly all of his adult life; that was way too fucking real. 

And Sam deserved something more than this perversion. That was, sadly, very real as well. 

Dean dropped the marriage certificate in the waste basket beside the bed (oh, look at that - the condom somehow made it in there) and slipped the ring off his finger. He couldn’t bring himself to leave it in the room, though. He put it in the corner pocket of his flannel and buttoned it up. 

Dean shut down all of Sam’s attempts at talking once he got out of the bathroom and within 30 minutes they were on the road, leaving Vegas and whatever happened there in the dust.  
_____________________

Sam’s mouth is sinful, the way he bites at Dean’s lower lip, the way he nips at his top one, the way he pushes his tongue inside, soft but demanding, making Dean gasp and give back everything he’s got. Sam groans into Dean’s mouth as their tongues tangle. He presses in even closer, pushing Dean up against the driver’s side door, one thick thigh shoved between Dean’s own. They’re twisted something uncomfortable, but Dean can’t care, not when he’s got his hands buried in Sam’s hair and is coaxing out the sweetest whimpers he’s ever heard. 

Sam breaks away, breathing hard, and ducks his face to Dean’s neck, licking and kissing his too-hot skin. “God, Dean.” 

Dean grunts and grips Sam’s hair harder, holds him there until Sam bites him, then sucks hard on his neck. “Sammy. Fuck.” 

Sam moans, and it vibrates against his skin, traveling up his neck along with Sam’s lips until they’re kissing again, hotter and harder than before, Sam’s big hands clutching Dean’s biceps as he fucks his mouth with his tongue. “Want you,” Sam gasps in between kisses. “Dean, you don’t even know.” 

“I’m gettin’ the picture,” he says, before crushing their mouths together again and shifting so their dicks can align. 

They kiss forever, a slow grind of bodies and a hard press of lips and tongue, and they don’t stop until the windows are steamed up, their lips are bruised, and their cocks are leaking. 

“Back seat,” Dean groans while Sam nips along his jaw, his hand working between them and stroking over the denim. 

“How long have you wanted to say that to me?” Sam’s words are a low, liquid tease, but they both freeze at them, stare at one another, because they haven’t gotten that far yet. Dean hasn’t exactly had his chick flick moment, left that one all to Sam. 

“Long time, Sammy,” Dean replies, voice rough, unsteady. “Long fucking time.” 

Sam nods, smiling a little. 

Dean shakes his head, because -- he doesn’t want Sam to think this is just some sex thing. “It’s not just. Sam, it isn’t --” 

Sam shushes him with another kiss, gentle this time. “I know. Don’t hurt yourself, okay?” 

Dean scowls at the tease in his voice. “Oh fuck you, bitch.” 

“Jerk,” Sam replies and kisses him harder before Dean shoves him back and opens the door. Leave it to Sam and they’ll never make it to the back, and Dean’s got needs. 

They don’t go for fancy, this time around. Dean’s too wound up to even think about fishing around for lube and condoms, and although he’d love to sink down on Sammy’s cock and ride him in the back of his baby -- well, yeah. There will be time. Instead, Sam lays Dean down on the back seat, stripping them both down and then rubbing himself all over him. It’s stupidly hot, more than it should be. Dean never really saw the appeal of this, even with the handful of dudes he’s been with -- would rather get his dick in a mouth or a hole -- but it’s different with Sam. 

Sammy’s just as warm as he was this morning, and Dean’s maybe got a thing for how he just envelops him. He’s used to being the bigger one, but this? This he could get used to. Sam feels -- right, is the thing. So right all pressed up against him, cocks flush and legs tangled, coarse hairs brushing one another with every movement. Their chests slide together as they kiss, wet and dirty, and Dean finds himself gasping with every push and pull, every drag of their nipples together. 

“Feel so good. You feel so fucking good, Dean.” 

He should’ve known Sam would be into the flowery sort of dirty talk, while Dean just likes it as filthy as possible. He chalks it up to another Sam exception, because fuck if it isn’t revving his engine something fierce. He grabs Sam’s ass with both hands and squeezes, marveling in how round and tight it is, better than he imagined. Sam moans against Dean’s mouth at the action, and presses him even harder into the leather. He hooks a thigh around Sam’s waist, pulling him in even tighter, reveling in the high gasp Sam lets out against his neck before he moves to kiss him again, open-mouthed and needy. 

They’re rocking the car now with every movement, and Dean takes a moment to be silently proud of that fact, before all thought leaves his brain as his orgasm rushes up and overtakes him. He bites down on Sam’s lip as he comes, Sam swallowing desperate moans as his body shakes against Dean’s and he follows him over, gasping Dean’s name over and over into his neck. 

It’s too hot in the car as they come down. Humid and sticky with the smell of sex hanging heavy in the air and Sam draped all over him, his hair sticking to Dean’s chest. Dean groans and reaches back to blindly crack the window open, and Sam snuffles unhappily and pulls his hand back down, settling it low around his back and snuggling in close. 

“Don’t get used to this,” Dean warns. 

“Mmm-hmm. Whatever you say, man.” Sam’s words are wrapped around a yawn, and Dean’s too fucked out and blissful to even argue with him. Whatever, a little cuddling won’t kill him. It’s not like Sam has to know it’s exactly what he wants to do right now. 

He kisses the top of Sam’s head, since they’re apparently being sappy, and runs his hand through his hair, making Sam moan happily and press a soft kiss into his neck.  
_____________________________________

What happened was this: 

They were at a strip joint. There were drinks, there were shots, there were a lot of walks down memory lane of shared history together and laughing until they were nearly doubled over at the bar. It'd been a long time since Dean saw Sam laugh like that, and something pulled at his chest. Sam was dumb and drunk and happy and Dean -- Dean just stared at him, moony-eyed and helpless in the face of that sunshine smile. 

He had a sappy, too-drunk thought of _I want to make him look like that forever,_ and then he wanted to gouge his own eye out with the lemon scooper. He pulled Sam over toward the main stage, needing the distraction. He hadn't considered that there'd be a stripper who was all about Sam, giving him the eye. Dean was not about that at all, and was also apparently loudly adamant about that fact, filter never firmly in place when drunk. Sam crowed that Dean was jealous he wasn’t getting the attention, Dean told Sam he could give a better lapdance than that woman any time, any place. Sam told him to put his body where his mouth was, and Dean -- well, Dean did. 

They got kicked out for indecent exposure and started making out against the wall instead, grinding with purpose while passersby whistled at them. 

At one point Dean broke away, something bright catching his eye. When he looked up, he saw they were across from one of those gaudy shotgun chapels. 

“Should make an honest woman of you, Sammy,” he’d said, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along Sam’s neck. 

Sam snorted, drunk and happy, looking behind them. “Shut up.” 

Dean laughed too, leaning in to kiss him again. “I’d do it, too.” 

Sam pulled back then, looked Dean square in the eye, oddly serious for how drunk they both were, and said, “Put your money where your mouth is.”

Dean never was one to back down from a challenge.  
___________________________

Dean finds the marriage certificate in the glove compartment when he’s looking for his Zeppelin V tape. 

He sticks it on the windshield. 

Sam finds the ring in Dean’s shirt pocket when they’re making out in the motel room (honeymoon suite, Sam’s idea of a joke, or so he says), his nipple catching on it as Dean presses him into the mattress. 

He slides it on Dean’s finger, ducking his head to hide his smile.  
_____________________________

_epilogue - 6 years later_

He waits until a month after Sam’s birthday to do it, so he isn’t suspicious. They’ve been settled down for about two years now, finally out of the fight and living the apple pie slice of life in good ol’ suburbia. Dean’s had a taste of it before, but he also hadn’t had his brother and felt like he was going through the motions, numb inside and trying to break out of the monotonous fog. Sure, he’ll grumble now about mundane tasks, but it's mostly for show to annoy Sam. They’ve got fake identities with iron-clad alibis, SSNs, and built-in job references. They’ve got neighbours who think they’re married and that it’s cute they kept their own last names. 

It made Dean start thinking about it for real. Marriage. As real as they could make it, anyway. More real than the certificate that now sits in a locked box on their shared dresser, safe from prying eyes, just for them. 

And once he started thinking about it, he couldn’t really stop. A proposal on Sam’s 40th birthday would’ve been way too fucking cliché, so on a warm summer night in late June, he takes Sam to the bougie French joint he loves and Dean hates. Sam eyes him skeptically from the time they walk in until the hostess seats them. 

“Reservations?” Sam asks, eyes twinkling. “Dean, you never make reservations.” 

“Whatever, shut up and try and read this menu for us.” 

Sam chuckles and does. 

The food doesn’t exactly suck, and the red wine Sam picks out hits the spot, especially since he's kind of nervous. After they order dessert, at Dean's insistence, he excuses himself for the bathroom. Sam doesn't know he's actually gone to slip a ring to the waitress to put in Sam's creme brûlée, because if he's doing a marriage proposal he might as well go full-on chick flick. 

His palms start sweating when Sam digs into the dish with his spoon, and then it becomes a chaotic scene of coughing and choking and Dean performing the Heimlich amidst concerned onlookers. It's up there in his top five embarrassing moments.

“What the hell was that?” Sam yells when he can breathe again.

Dean huffs and picks up the custard-covered ring from the floor. “Well, I didn't expect you to nearly die on me!” He shoves it into Sam’s palm. “Here, take it.”

“Um,” Sam says, blinking down at the ring. Dean grimaces as he cleans it off. 

“Um,” Sam says again, blinking again but now looking up at Dean with those dumb puppy eyes and that still too-long floppy hair that's only slightly grey at the edges while Dean’s temples have fully turned by now, god damn it. 

Sam still hasn't said anything, and Dean’s just about done. He shifts his weight onto his other foot, scrubs at the back of his neck. “Jesus Christ, Sammy, you gonna marry me or what?”

The people at the tables near them -- fucking busybodies -- make aww’ing sounds, and Dean shoots them a deadly glare before turning back to Sam, looking up at him through his eyelashes. 

“Dean, we're already--”

“For real, Sam,” Dean says in a rush. “Or, you know, as real as we can --”

Sam cuts him off with a kiss, sloppy and full-on movie cliché, his arms tight around Dean’s back while the restaurant erupts in applause. 

Jesus, Dean is never gonna live this down. 

“Yes,” Sam says after they've regained their breath, redundant as fuck. 

“Yeah, I kinda got that,” Dean mumbles, head bent both to hide his blush and focus on his task; this time it's his turn to to slip the ring on Sam’s finger, like Sam did to him all those years ago in that cheesy motel room. 

It sits snugly with the other one, and Dean thinks they look pretty damn good together. 

He pays the bill and then drags Sam out of the restaurant for some engagement sex. 

In the Impala. 

[end]

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] I know all the rules (and then I know how to break ‘em)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10841838) by [Readbyanalise010](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readbyanalise010/pseuds/Readbyanalise010)




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